


In the Conservatory with the Gun

by mokuyoubi



Category: Bandom, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Assassins & Hitmen, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-11
Updated: 2013-03-11
Packaged: 2017-12-05 00:25:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/716766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mokuyoubi/pseuds/mokuyoubi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone wants Spencer dead, but maybe hiring Brendon to do the job wasn't the best idea...</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Conservatory with the Gun

**Author's Note:**

> For unluckykitty, on the occasion of her birth. It isn't exactly mobster!AU, sorry, but it's something that's been playing through my mind ever since seeing those Panic! pics Shane took. Hope you enjoy!

It was the eyes that had made all the difference. The man at the conservatory every Friday night had warm eyes that smiled even when his mouth didn’t. Spencer liked to watch him from afar, appreciate his compact build and the way his hair fell into his eyes. He wondered why the man was always alone, with eyes like that.

The man with the garrote in Spencer’s bedroom had flat, cold eyes that watched dispassionately as he tightened the wire around Spencer’s throat. 

Spencer hadn’t even made the connection until his vision was going spotty around the edges. His fingers curled around the hem of the man’s sleeve, tugging sluggishly. There was no air left in his lungs with which to speak, but he mouthed, wonderingly, “Why?” 

It was a change that startled his oxygen starved brain, a spark of life in those dead eyes that made him want to gasp. Suddenly, he could, the wire loosening enough for Spencer to draw one hungry breath after another. Belatedly, he struggled against the man’s hold, only to be shoved back against the wall hard enough to crack the plaster. 

“Why are you doing this?” he panted. His own voice sounded alien to his ears, ragged and desperate. 

The man cocked his head to the side, gave Spencer a piercing look. “Why?” he repeated. He sounded intrigued. “You really don’t know?” 

Spencer shook his head dumbly. He still couldn’t seem to draw enough breath and was hyper aware of the wire still wound around his throat. Now, with his vision cleared, there was no mistaking it was the man from the conservatory. Had he been following Spencer all this time? Was he some sort of serial killer? 

Another, stronger surge of panic swept through him, making his heart beat even faster. He wondered what would happen first, heart attack or strangulation. It was the adrenaline that made him act, trying to buck the man off again. He made it a few feet from the wall before being tripped backwards onto the floor, the man straddling his hips. 

“You need to stop doing that,” the man said. His voice was dangerous, but there was a disconcertingly playful spark in his eyes. “Now.” He sat back on his heels and produced a gun from the small of his back. He gestured with it to the wire until Spencer got the hint, cautiously removing it. The man nodded his approval. 

“Spencer, my name is Brendon,” he paused meaningfully and Spencer caught on after a beat. 

“Nice to meet you,” he said, massaging his throat. He was proud at how evenly his voice came out. The man was fucking insane and Spencer was so, so dead. And yet, somehow, arriving at that conclusion was calming. 

“Now Spencer, someone wants you dead, and they’ve ordered me to do it, and usually when that happens, people know why they’re dying.” 

Spencer’s mind raced at the implication. Who would want him dead? Who, that he knew, would have access to a fucking assassin to get the job done. “You’re an hit man?” he blurted out. 

“I think the p.c. term is hit _person_ ,” Brendon corrected. “Though I prefer assassin. It just sounds more badass, don’t you think?” he mused. “What is it that you do, Spencer Smith?” 

“I’m a scientist,” Spencer snapped. It was a little irritating that Brendon was just going to kill him, no questions asked, not even knowing what Spencer did for a living. 

Brendon gave him a speculative look, shifting his gun so that it was no longer pointed at Spencer’s throat. “Working on some creepy biological weapon?” he asked. 

“No! What?” Spencer sputtered. 

“Hmmm.” Brendon glanced up at the ceiling in thought. Maybe, if he was distracted…the gun was loose in his grip. Spencer could—“Don’t even think about it,” Brendon said, in a half-cheerful, vaguely terrifying voice. “I will shoot you.” Spencer didn’t doubt it for a second. 

“So,” Brendon continued. “Working on the secret of the next fusion bomb?” 

Spencer felt his nose wrinkle in confusion. “What are you even talking about? I work for a pharmaceutical company.” 

“Some mind-control-y drug?” Brendon asked, face lighting up. 

“I’m working on adapting the _p16_ gene to suppress tumor growth,” Spencer snapped impatiently. 

“Huh,” Brendon said, taking even more of his weight from Spencer’s lap. He clicked the safety of the gun back on, frowning down at Spencer. “Do you, like, swindle old folks out of their life’s savings, or, I don’t know—engage in human trafficking?” 

Spencer pushed up on his elbows, targeting Brendon with his best glare. “I’m a _scientist_ ,” he repeated. “I spend most of my time in the lab, giving lectures, and writing articles. Super exciting, right? Oh, I know, I play pool at this bar downtown sometimes. I’m pretty good. Maybe someone thought I was hustling them. But then, that seems like it would be below your pay grade.” 

Brendon gave him an unimpressed look and Spencer swallowed hard. He couldn’t say what possessed him to be a smart ass to the guy with the gun, except, well, what else did he have to lose? 

Suddenly, Brendon got to his feet, gun hanging loose at his side. “Okay. Get up.” 

“What? No,” Spencer said. “If you’re going to kill me, just fucking do it.” 

Brendon let out a long sigh, like _he_ was the one being inconvenienced here. “Get up,” he repeated, “or I just might.” 

Spencer got to his feet slowly, catching himself with a hand on the wall, head spinning with the rush of blood. He eyed the space between himself and Brendon, the open door beyond. His cell phone was on the table in the hall. 

“Seriously?” Brendon said, grabbing him by the arm and jerking. “Look, either I’m going to kill you, or I’m not, which means they’ll just send someone else to do it. So you’ve got a couple choices. You can fuck with me, and you won’t live long enough to regret it, or you can cooperate with me, and maybe we can figure out why someone wants you dead.” 

“And then?” Spencer prompted. 

“And then I decide whether or not to follow orders,” Brendon told him brightly.


End file.
